


He No Longer Needs to Wonder

by FinAmour



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Handholding, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed, comedic misunderstandings, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 20:44:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19158655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: It all began with Crowley, and Aziraphale, and the forbidden fruit.





	He No Longer Needs to Wonder

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shcrlockholmcs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shcrlockholmcs/gifts).



Depending on how a kiss is given, it can be something sinful, or something angelic. This grey area is a staple of the human condition; and kissing is widely considered one of the most glorious Earthly experiences.

But then again, so is sushi. And the music of Beethoven. And the writings of Jane Austen.

And just as humans don’t _need_ sushi, or Beethoven, or _Pride and Prejudice,_ or to be able to dance the gavotte, humans don’t _need_ kissing.

Neither do angels, of course.

Which is why Aziraphale becomes bewildered each time his eyes venture to Crowley’s lips and stay there. Each time he wonders what they might feel like to touch. Each time he feels that visceral surge of affection welling in his chest for a demon sat lazily across from him in a dimly-lit room.

It sometimes _feels_ like a need, he thinks. To be close to Crowley. To touch him. To kiss him.

_Why?_

Centuries of asking himself this very question have yielded neither answers nor results—so ultimately, he decides Crowley himself is to blame.

Specifically: temptation. Crowley did, after all, tempt the very first woman on Earth to disobey the Almighty. Temptation is what he does _best._

And so, one day around the turn of the 2nd century BC, Aziraphale decides once and for all that he will never submit himself to the temptations of a demon. But Crowley always seems to be the exception, doesn’t he?

***

It all began with Crowley, and Aziraphale, and the forbidden fruit.

Well, grapes. Grapes that had been crushed and fermented and poured into bottles.

Wine. It was wine. Crowley, Aziraphale, and wine.

But the two had actually just thwarted the apocalypse together, and that’s an accomplishment quite obviously worthy of a few glasses.

Bottles.

Blurred cab ride from the restaurant back to Crowley’s place. Arms wrapped around each other’s waists. Laughing loudly and drunkenly and leaning into one another’s bodies as they approach the flat. Tumbling through the door and fully clothed into Crowley’s bed.

Spinning. Darkness. Sleep.

The sun. Pouring loudly through the window, Aziraphale’s eyes fluttering open, his breath catching in his throat.

_Where am I?_

Someone is inhaling and exhaling steadily next to him. Aziraphale turns his head to look, and a smile flashes across his features.

Crowley is sleeping soundly besides him, his tousled hair rustling against his face, one arm strewn lightly over Aziraphale’s stomach.

Aziraphale sighs happily. He feels wonderful right now, despite the pounding headache and the nagging concern that he may vomit at any moment.

Fulfilled. At peace. At home.

Crowley is such a beautiful creature, he thinks as he stares unabashedly at his friend. But Crowley is even _more_ beautiful when he sleeps. The lines on his face—telltale signs of all he’s suffered and seen—seem to fade away. The worries of the world pour off of him, and he looks younger. Freer. Angelic, even.

Aziraphale sighs contentedly and then looks down at Crowley’s hand atop his waist. He tentatively brushes their fingertips together—Crowley’s hands are soft. And also, Aziraphale thinks, Crowley’s hands are begging to be held. So he entwines their fingers together, not thinking of the implications or the consequences. He’s really only thinking of love.

***

Crowley is uncharacteristically still when he awakens a half hour later. Aziraphale can hear his breaths quicken, and the fingers between his own twitch slightly.

“Angel,” Crowley rasps, and Aziraphale turns his head to stare into his sleepy golden eyes.

“Good morning, Crowley,” he says cheerfully. “How are you feeling?”  

Crowley clears his throat and swallows. “Not too bad, I suppose. Erm. You’re not on fire, so that’s good.”

Crowley bursts into laughter. “Were you _expecting_ to awaken to me engulfed in a bed of flames?”

Crowley’s lips tug upwards, revealing a toothy grin. “I don’t know. I sort of had this idea that if I ever were to—“ he pauses.

Aziraphale blinks slowly. “If you were to what?”

“Oh, you know, touch you. For an extended amount of time. Like we are now, holding hands. I kinda thought you might, you know, incinerate, or something.”

Aziraphale tries to listen, but his brain latches on to the word _touch,_ and it doesn’t go far past that. And though he can’t see his own face, he’s positive it’s turned beet red.

“You’ve thought about...touching me?” He blurts.

“Well, of course,” Crowley says plainly. “I mean, that’s how humans show affection, right? And you’ve got to admit, we’re practically human by this point.”

Aziraphale shifts his eyes and tucks his head down. “Aff-affection?” he mumbles. “You affect—that is to say, you feel—“

Crowley turns to his side to stare at Aziraphale, his head resting on his hand, the smirk on his face growing fond and amused. “Oh. You have no idea, then, do you?”

“No idea of what?”

“Of how much I fancy you, you moron.”

Aziraphale swallows down a gasp of shock. “I, erm. Pardon?”

Crowley shakes his head, his grin widening. “Why the heaven else would I have put up with you for six millennia? Rescued you more times than I can count? Taken you out on dates?” He locks eyes with Aziraphale and leans forward. “Angel, I asked you to run away with me to another _planet_.”

And there it is—that familiar surge of affection blooming in Aziraphale’s chest, like a star burning white-hot in the night; like the final cadence of Beethoven’s ninth symphony; like the first page of your favourite book for the hundredth time.

Like love.

“Crowley, I—“ he stammers. He wants to say—things, but his head and his heart are so full that he seems to have forgotten how to.

He finally settles for: “You could have just bought flowers or chocolate, you know.”

“Duly noted,” Crowley laughs. “Next time I save you after you get yourself kidnapped, I’ll make sure to stop off at a Godiva.”

Aziraphale shifts his eyes back up to Crowley’s, and he beams. “You could have just _told_ me.”

“You’re an angel! You know all about love and—things like that! I assumed you already knew!”

Aziraphale clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I’m not the almighty,” he says. “I don’t read minds.”

Crowley’s grin widens, his expression nothing short of bliss. He unwinds his hands from Aziraphale’s and he splays his palm over his hip, turning his body to face his own. “Alright, then,” he says with coy defiance. “Then I guess I’ll just have to _show_ you.” He lifts his hand and sets it beneath Aziraphale’s chin, gently tilting his head towards his own. “Now that I know you’re not going to turn into a pile of ashes, and all.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fall to Crowley’s lips. He again wonders, as he has for so many centuries, what those lips might feel like to touch.

And when the demon leans across the bed to press those sinful lips to his—after six thousand long years, he no longer needs to wonder.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m @fin__amour on Twitter...come say hi!


End file.
